Mia Magazine Spring2011

SPRING2011

a journal by for and about women

my JOURNEY Surviving Postpartum Depression

My art bittersweet but beautiful

My inspiration Literary Heroines

my cause Her Family’s Fight Against Human Trafficking

My Heritage An Immigration Story

Stories

FROM THE

Heart.

“Life is beautiful!”

At 34, Melanie was wheelchair bound due to

Marilyn Ihloff Salon

paralysis and pain that resulted from a ruptured disc. • Several physicians told her she was not a good candidate for surgery and there was nothing more that could be done. Fortunately, a friend recommended the orthopedic specialists at Hillcrest

The difference is our doctors.

Medical Center. Melanie was wheeled into Hillcrest, only to walk out less than 24 hours later . • Today, she’s back to her work and life is beautiful.

South Utica, Tulsa Oklahoma • 2 1120

tel. no. 918.585.8000

•Miatodayshillcrest.com Magazine, Spring 2011

spring2011 Mia Magazine A journal by, for, and about women Publisher The Leslie Group, LLC Managing Editor Jan Weinheimer

Recently I was scrolling through some photos my daughter had taken on a trip to India, and I came across several that had an unusual perspective.

She had positioned the camera over her shoulder and taken photos of something behind her, without the benefit of her eye looking through the lens. The images were beautifully unplanned and it worked. I’m only a wannabe photographer and so I fuss over things like angle, lighting, and positioning people until they are weary, and my photos are still only mediocre. Sometimes it’s the unplanned moments in life that give us the greatest perspective and produce the most beautiful results.

Each quarter when we put the magazine together, the stories seem to have a cohesiveness that is surprising. This issue is no different.

One writer received a book from her mother that changed her life; another writer took a walk in the woods and found her passion. And one young mother looks back on the most frightening year of her life and realizes it has produced in her a deep gratitude for simple blessings. Each story in this issue points to both the randomness and the meaning of the events that occur in our lives.

I’ve been thinking about the lens through which we view our lives.

As I read through this issue’s stories,

I realized that each of our writers decided to view the unplanned moments of life through the lens of opportunity. They used the challenges, detours and heartaches for growth and allowed them to produce something beautiful in them.

We feel privileged to publish a magazine that focuses on storytelling. As you read Mia, we hope you grasp the vision of how sharing stories draws us together.

There is plenty that pulls us apart.

Maybe it’s time to think about ways to build community as we seek to understand each other and ourselves. If you believe in the value of storytelling, we hope you will help us spread the word about Mia. Tell a friend or relative and then subscribe to the magazine. You can even do both by purchasing a gift subscription. And tell us your story.

We accept full-length submissions and read them with anticipation, as if we are sitting down with a good friend to hear her story. I hope that is how you will read this issue. When you have turned the last page in the magazine, share it with someone else. Stories do their best work when they are given away.

Editor Lisa Tresch Creative Director & Graphic Designer Lina Holmes Business & Technical Director Juli Armour intern Nicole Pride Contributing Editor Linda Watanabe McFerrin Writers Jessica Cunningham Tammie Dooley Indy Grotto Kylla Leeburg Yona Zeldis McDonough Nicole Pride Nancy Reilly Monica Roberts Amanda Valloza-Hlavaty Photography LSD Photography Lisa Dunham, Sophia Litchfield For writers guidelines, visit miamagazine.net Reproduction in whole or part is prohibited. Copyright © 2011 The Leslie Group, LLC. All rights reserved.

Mia Magazine is published quarterly by The Leslie Group, LLC P.O. Box 35665 Tulsa, Oklahoma 74153-0665 918.978.5567 www.miamagazine.net

subscribe to mia: www.miamagazine.net/subscribe

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

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by Nicole Pride

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Contents spring 2011 6

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Myblog

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MyJourney

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Myart

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Myheritage

Grandmother Tania: An Immigration Story

by Yona Zeldis McDonough Maebird’s Food

by Amanda Valloza-Hlavaty Postpartum Survivors

by Indy Grotto The Beauty of Bittersweet

by Nancy Reilly

Mycause

Truckers Against Trafficking

by Kylla Leeburg

MYinspiration

Courting Culture: A Literary Quartet

by Linda Watanabe McFerrin

Myreel review

Ahead of Her Time

by Tammie Dooley

Myhealth

Learning to Breathe

by Jessica Cunningham

MyAfterTHOUGHTS

Kite and String

by Monica Roberts

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Myblog

by Amanda Valloza-Hlavaty

maebird.blogspot.com

I had no luck with a vegetable garden this year; turns out you need sun to grow vegetables. Who knew? But the potted herbs make me happy. The teeny tomatoes were a bit of a surprise considering I didn’t plant them. They just sprouted up, I’m guessing, from the compost. Anyway, on to zucchini…which is not from my garden. We had lots of zucchini from last week’s CSA (Community Supported Agriculture), so I made chocolate zucchini muffins (twice!) and these fritters. I made them for breakfast, and they were good. I bet they would be really good with a poached egg. Mmmm.

Zucchini Fritters

1 pound zucchini, grated 1 clove garlic, minced 1 jalapeno pepper, chopped 1 tablespoon masa corn flour 1 whole egg, beaten 1 tablespoon fresh oregano 2 tablespoons olive oil salt and pepper to taste

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Grate the zucchini and salt them. Let stand for 30 minutes to an hour in a colander. Squeeze the zucchini dry with your hands or wring it out with a kitchen towel.

In a large bowl, add the zucchini and the rest of the ingredients, except the oil. Gently mix.

Heat the oil over medium heat in a cast-iron skillet or a non-stick sauté pan. When hot, add the batter by the heaping tablespoon. Spread a little to make a pancake shape.

Cook for about 3 minutes, or until golden. Turn over with a spatula and cook for another 2 minutes or so.

Salt while draining on paper towels.

Yogurt topping: Greek yogurt, lemon juice and cayenne pepper.

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

I am not one for salads. I wish I liked them more, but I find them boring. But this carrot salad is not boring! No boring iceburg lettuce leaves. No need for thick gobs of dressing to make up for the lack of flavor. I got this recipe from my friend Heidi. She has influenced my diet and cooking quite a bit. Here’s to you Heidi!

I’m doing everything I can to fight a cold right now: salt gargling, neti pot, emergen-c, ginger-lemon-honey-tea, drinking lots and lots of water. What am I missing?

I made this soup a couple of nights ago when it was chilly outside. The weather changed quickly, and now I’m sitting here in a skirt and a tank top sweating. (Maybe that has a lot to do with the pregnancy?) I don’t know if there will be too many more chilly soup days because summer is fast approaching, but this soup was a treat. I used a bunch of ingredients that we had on hand, and it came out really good. This might sound like a gross comparison, but it reminds me of a warm, savory green smoothie. And it’s healthy! No, really it’s good. Trust me.

Creamy Green Soup

Carrot Salad

6 medium sized carrots, grated juice of 1-2 lemons half a jalapeño, minced handful of cilantro, chopped Mix together and salt to taste.

Oatmeal Ball

These are so good and always changing with infinite ingredient possibilities. Recently I’ve been adding chia seeds and hemp seeds.

Dry ingredients: 2 1/2 cups oats 1/2 cup chocolate chips 1/3 cup coconut flakes 1/3 cup pecans 1/4 cup chia seeds Mix those together.

Wet ingredients: 1/2 cup peanut butter 1 cup honey 1/4 cup coconut oil Mix those together until well combined. If you are having trouble mixing them well, you can heat them up a bit on the stove to get them to melt.

Mix the wet and dry and form into balls. Put in the fridge for a bit to harden up. Enjoy.

Note: Ingredients are all estimates. This is very forgiving.

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

1 head of broccoli, chopped 1-2 russet potatoes, peeled and cubed (small cubes so it cooks faster) 1 onion, chopped 2 cloves of garlic, chopped 2 cups spinach 1 cup frozen peas 1 teaspoon kosher salt 1 teaspoon oregano 1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional) 1/2 cup half & half 5 cups water or broth (you can add more when blending if it seems too thick)

Saute the onions in a little bit of oil for about 5-10 minutes. Add the potatoes, broccoli, salt, oregano, garlic, red pepper flakes, cayenne, and water/broth. Boil until potatoes and broccoli are soft (about 15 min).

Add the frozen peas and spinach and return to a boil for a couple of minutes.

Remove from heat and blend in a blender until smooth. Blend hot liquids with caution! Return to the pot and mix in half and half. Heat through and add more salt to taste if needed. Now eat!

Continued on page 32 See My blog

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Myjourney

by Indy Grotto

Every year around my son’s birthday, the yucca plants bloom.

For weeks, I watch as the stems begin their journey, shooting up from the center of sword-shaped leaves and slowly inching their way into the spring sky.

And then one morning in May, I step out on the front porch, and there they are – dozens and dozens of creamy-white bells hanging precariously from the end of those long, slender stalks.

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They never fail to surprise me.

And in the midst of last-minute birthday preparations, I am reminded to stop and be thankful that we are even around to celebrate. We almost lost our lives to something cruel and insidious that first year after Julian was born – we are survivors of postpartum depression.

Seven and a half years ago, I sat cradling my newborn son.

As the wind whipped and dark clouds swirled overhead, I was too busy soaking in the wonder of new life to pay attention to the ominous tornado sirens sounding throughout the city. If only they had been able to warn of the destruction that was to descend on our lives in the coming months.

For the first few weeks, I was on a high. I was thrilled with the home birth that I had been carefully preparing for, Julian was nursing like a champ, and I was getting by on a fragmented but decent amount of sleep. But suddenly, my usual, manageable obsessivecompulsive tendencies kicked into high gear. I was convinced he had Down syndrome.

“See,” I grabbed my husband, Jason, “Don’t his ears look different? His eyes are almondshaped!” And I became obsessed with my milk supply, certain Julian was starving to death. He had a voracious appetite and nursed endlessly, punching and kicking the whole time. He never seemed satisfied, and I felt like I was unable to read his cries. I made countless trips to lactation consultants and the pediatrician’s office, weighing him sometimes two or three times a week. And despite his gaining almost a pound a week on average, I simply couldn’t accept the fact that he was thriving.

The days passed in a blur. My cyclical mood swings were becoming more extreme. One minute I was fine and playing with Julian, and the next, I’d be lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, overcome by anxiety and sobbing hysterically. I fantasized about leaving. If

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

I could only take the car and drive as far away as possible, then surely everything would be fine again and the panic attacks would end.

And then I stopped sleeping. I was six weeks postpartum and starting to suspect something was terribly wrong. I found myself wandering through the house in the middle of the night, desperate to sleep but unable to settle down. I felt like I did when I was a child, just moments before a track race started, revved up and ready to go with little bolts of electricity shooting through my body. I would finally fall asleep, only to wake up in a panic, certain that Julian had stopped breathing.

Then one night, while surfing the Internet in an exhausted daze, I came across a checklist of postpartum depression symptoms: tearfulness, sleep problems/insomnia, severe anxiety, extreme mood swings, intrusive thoughts, panic attacks, worries or obsessions about the baby’s health or well being.

Suddenly, it became painfully clear what was wrong with me.

“I think I have postpartum depression,” I announced to my midwife who had come by to check on me. At her suggestion, I had my thyroid levels checked, desperate to have a simple explanation. When the blood work came back normal, I was devastated. We were back at square one.

In August, my in-laws came to visit and were shocked to find the mess we were in. By then, Jason was caring for us full time while trying to somehow keep his freelance business afloat. We decided that a change of scenery would do me good and maybe help me sleep better. We left for Tulsa intending to spend the long weekend with Jason’s parents. It would be over two weeks before we finally made the return trip home to Little Rock.

In Tulsa, my mood continued to deteriorate. Jason made a call to our nurse-midwife back in Little Rock.

She prescribed a low-dose antidepressant, and I agreed to take it. Suddenly things went from bad to worse. I would

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lie awake all night, desperate to fall asleep but unable to do so. Days passed. Another call was made, and I was prescribed a sleep-aid. It would knock me out for an hour or two, but then I’d wake up in a panic, horrified that the nightmare was real. It felt like a million voices were crowded inside my head, all talking and giggling at the same time. The chaotic noise made my skin crawl.

We were becoming desperate for help. I got in to see a therapist who seemed unfazed by my crazed state.

“Keep taking the medication,” she encouraged. “This is normal. It’s going to take another week or so to kick in and then you’ll start feeling much better.” But days went by and it became very clear that the antidepressant was making me much worse. Through the back window of my in-laws’ house, I watched my sister-in-law happily splashing around in the pool with her eight-month-old daughter and wondered how it was possible to have such fun. For me, motherhood was a nightmare, and I felt like a failure. I imagined drowning myself or killing myself with the knives in my mother-in-law’s kitchen drawers. I confessed my thoughts to Jason; he hid the knives and then decided he’d seen enough.

We were given the name of a fertility specialist known to treat patients suffering from postpartum depression.

Jason got me dressed and drove me to the clinic. We sat in the waiting room, surrounded by women who had invested years and great expense trying to conceive a baby like the one I wished I didn’t have. In the doctor’s office, I sat slumped in a chair, glaring as the doctor made

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small talk. He asked me some questions and seemed particularly interested in my family history. Finally, he took a long look at me and said, “You have severe postpartum depression and anxiety. You are having a hypomanic, bipolar reaction to the antidepressant. You must stop taking it immediately. I am putting you on an estrogen patch. You should notice a significant difference in 24 hours.”

Jason and I sat there in disbelief, completely stunned.

How could this have happened? The illness seemed to have come out of nowhere; I had never had any prior episodes of depression. We hadn’t struggled with fertility and I was thrilled at the prospect of staying home full-time and raising children. I had loved being pregnant, had a wonderful birth experience and an extremely supportive husband and family. But, as I now know, there were warning signs. I am a perfectionist, a high achiever, and have had trichotillomania – an obsessive hair pulling disorder – since I was a young child. Furthermore, my family history is rife with mental illness, alcoholism and suicide, all risk factors that greatly increase the likelihood of developing a postpartum illness.

I started the estrogen patch immediately and by the following afternoon, my depression had eased—enough, in fact, for me to leave the house and take a walk around the neighborhood. For the first time in a long while, I thought that maybe life was worth living after all. But when the panic attacks and insomnia continued, the doctor added in an antipsychotic. I wasn’t the ideal

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

patient. Despite assurances that the medication was compatible with breastfeeding, I was skeptical and soon stopped taking it. And I’d begun to notice the patch was affecting my milk supply, so I’d take it off only to find myself growing edgy. When depression would return with a vengeance, I’d reluctantly put the patch back on and begin the slow climb out of the dark pit again.

Months passed and the fog began to lift. I had long since stopped wearing the patch and was no longer depressed or having panic attacks. I felt like my old self, was working on rebuilding our nine-year, almostperfect-till-that-point marriage, and finally enjoying motherhood. But I was still struggling with anxiety and insomnia. So, a few weeks before my son turned one, my doctor prescribed an anti-anxiety drug. For the first time in almost a year, I was able to sleep more than a couple of hours in a row. The healing process had finally begun.

Almost two and a half years after Julian’s birth, I decided to stop taking the medication. Within two weeks, we learned that I was pregnant again. I spent the next eight months praying, meditating, and doing my best not to let myself focus on the “what-ifs.” What if it happens again? What if I’m too worn out to put up a fight? What if I actually kill myself this time, or even worse, kill the baby?

On July 8, 2006, a little over three years after Julian’s birth, we welcomed a baby girl into our lives.

I immediately began taking some medication on the advice of my psychiatrist. Within a few weeks, I knew that things were different this time. I did experience a little

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

anxiety, normal for a new mother, but I knew without a doubt that I was going to be fine. I weaned off the medication quickly and reveled in the feeling of caring for my new daughter.

We chose a name for her on a whim. Two days before she arrived, we were flipping channels and came across a 1960s performance of Bob Dylan singing “Visions of Johanna.” Because we had played together in a band for 15 years, the name spoke to our music sensibilities and was also in keeping with my husband’s family tradition of using the letter J. And later, when we learned the meaning of the name, it became even more significant.

Johanna – God is gracious. Gracious, because unlike women such as Andrea Yates, Carol Soukakos, Mary Ellen Moffitt, and Annie Spangler, we were given a second chance.

Now I reach out to new mothers and ask the right questions. Not the usual, “Is he sleeping through the night?” or “Don’t you just love being a mother?” I ask questions like, “Are you sleeping okay?” and “How are you feeling?” If our journey means being able to help even one struggling mother, then it will have been worthwhile.

The yucca plants are dormant now, hunkered down for the winter. But when spring comes again and they bloom once more, I’ll pull my children close and give thanks for yet another year of life. Mia Photos by Angela Alexander

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MyART

by Nancy Reilly

Some might say I came to my art of creating intricately composed furniture by a twisted path, using nature’s afterthoughts.

I grew up in a rural area and even when I was a small child, I preferred to spend most of my playtime in the woods where I felt safe, free, and happy. To my mother and younger sister’s horror, I regularly returned home with trophies – both alive and dead. I counted Indian pipes, rabbits, frogs, turtles, and snakes among my treasures.

After high school, I trained to become a nurse and earned my nursing degree, but during the rare times that I was not studying or on the wards, I continued to haunt the woods. By this point, I believed I had become a bit more sophisticated, like a 19th century naturalist.

But my sister (with whom I shared an apartment) was of a decidedly different mind. One day she complained that all the dried plants that I had gathered and carefully displayed in our kitchen were homes to hoards of insect larva. She was correct. So to keep the peace, I threw my lovely plants away.

As a nurse working in a big city hospital, I deeply missed my beloved woods and began to wish I had chosen a path that allowed me to be in the forest. A few years later, I left nursing to earn a master’s degree in biology, concentrating on evolutionary biology. I loved this experience, although in retrospect I must have lost touch with reality. I started graduate school with two children and finished with four! Not surprisingly, it took me a long time to finish my master’s degree, but I did.

My triumph was short-lived, however, when I made the painful, but correct, decision to forego my dream of earning a Ph.D. and devote myself to my family.

As the children grew, I kept looking for a way to reconnect with the woods. Then, about 12 years ago, I started attending evening courses about animal behavior.

Continued on page 28 See MY ART

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Mycause

by Kylla Leeburg

Scantily clad and shivering in the night, the young girls stand on the street, at truck stops, and in motels, offering themselves to men three and four times their age. Bruises are still healing on their bodies where pimps have broken them in and their deadened eyes are evidence of wounded souls. They are sold to anyone who wants them for 30 minutes, one sex act or maybe two. It doesn’t matter as long as the money is paid. If they don’t smile and act like they want it, they’ll be beaten again, threatened, and possibly killed. The average age of a prostitute in the United States is 14.

They usually enter the profession at age 12.

If I were a tattooing kind of girl, I would have just one word scrawled across my body: Justice. I believe in it, seek it, and am angered by the lack of it. I’m not alone in my desire to see justice prevail. I look to some of my greatest heroes and stand in awe: Nelson Mandela, who fought valiantly against apartheid; Archbishop Oscar Romero, who was martyred standing up for the oppressed of El Salvador; William Lloyd Garrison, who led the fight for abolition of slavery in this country.

But I can also look at the home of my childhood to see justice and find my heroes: my sisters and parents.

I was raised to believe justice is action, not simply words. My father was a defense attorney with the Judge Advocate General (JAG) in the Air Force. My mother taught English as a second language to immigrants and gave to those less fortunate, even when we were close to the line of poverty ourselves.

We spoke out for the equality of women in our male-dominated school, sought positions normally associated with men, and lent our voices to numerous causes over the years – from the abolition of apartheid to the student in our class who was continually bullied.

We studied law, education, journalism, English, theology, political science, and international studies.

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

When my mom gave my sisters and me a copy of the book Not For Sale by David Batstone, it wasn’t out of character. She was always giving us books to read that would inspire, motivate, and educate us. I didn’t think too much about it, but as I read the book I became horrified. I cried, was enraged, and became agitated; slavery was still among us. In fact, it was worse than ever before in human history. Twenty-seven million people are enslaved in the world today. We call it human trafficking – a modern name for an ancient evil.

Many of the human trafficking victims are teenaged prostitutes, young girls who could be my daughter, my nieces, or my students.

After reading the book, I felt like I was waking up from a nightmare, but I couldn’t shake the fact that the girls trapped in this life didn’t have that luxury.

The women in my family planned a conference call to decide what we should do about it. Decrying human trafficking with no action behind it is a slap in the face to the men, women, and children suffering in their bondage. They need someone to stand up for them.

From that phone call, my sisters (Kirsta, Kendis, and Karin), my mom (Lyn), a family friend (Crystal), and I formed Chapter 61 Ministries. The purpose is to end injustice in the world. Our target issue became human trafficking, and we immediately set to work. Through a national human trafficking awareness conference that Kendis and her friend Molly organized in Colorado, we were able to meet with top abolitionist organizations and learn from them. It was an overwhelming day as we listened to the stories of trafficking victims and empathized with their pain, but it was also invigorating to see how each organization was attacking the problem.

Continued on page 34 See MY cause

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MyINSPIRATION

by Linda Watanabe McFerrin

Iwasnine

when I first became acquainted with Eleanor of Aquitaine, who was queen to the kings of both France and England. Katharine Hepburn famously portrayed her in The Lion in Winter, the tale of her tumultuous marriage to King Henry II. She grew up in the sophisticated court of William X, Duke of Aquitaine, and was one of the wealthiest, most powerful and culturally influential women of the High Middle Ages ‌ and perhaps of all time. In her later years, her court at Poitiers was the incubator for a new literary form—the novel.

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Of course, it isn’t unusual for young girls to be entranced by princesses and queens, but what fascinated me about Eleanor was the poets she gathered around her, the literature she inspired, the community and the creativity she nurtured. Little did I know that I would one day find my own Eleanors, but they wouldn’t be queens and wouldn’t necessarily be wildly wealthy. They’d be ordinary women of extraordinary merit, and their passion and effort would foster the kind of environment that I imagine Eleanor achieved, generating the excitement that comes from contact with ideas that can change lives, loves, and maybe even the world.

So here is a short list of some of my Eleanors. I’m certain you have your own list. What these women have in common is a confidence and intelligence that draws us to them, a way of engaging with people and culture that, with any luck, is contagious.

Francine Ringold Tulsa, Oklahoma

… And what of that complexity of communal life: hummingbirds, backyard cardinals, chickadees, pelicans and porcupines? They nest in our morning walks like crystal pockets in red granite. Like us, they belong.

- excerpted from Don’t Mention It

by Francine Ringold

I begin with Francine Ringold, two-term Oklahoma Poet Laureate, devoted teacher and for 42 years, editor-in-chief of Nimrod, The International Journal of Prose and Poetry published by the University of Tulsa, where Francine is a professor. She is the woman who first brought me to Oklahoma, where a piece of my heart will always remain. Francine, who was inspired early on by her uncle, New York writer and publisher John Stevenson, brings people nationwide together through the poetry and stories on the pages of the beautiful anthologies that she shepherds into the world.

Every year the University of Tulsa hosts the Nimrod Literary Awards Conference for Readers and Writers,

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

orchestrated by Fran and executed with great panache.

Pulitzer Prize winners and Poets Laureate Stanley Kunitz and W.S. Merwin, as well as novelists Francine Prose and Anita Shreve, and U.S. Poets Laureate Ted Kooser and William Stafford have been among her illustrious guests.

The celebration is a doorway into Francine’s realm, a reminder of how poetry, prose, people, and place can come together to elevate and enliven a space, a town, a country—like the poetry walk she is organizing scheduled for April 30, 2011 in Tulsa’s new Oklahoma Centennial Botanical Garden. A vital and effervescent personality with a key role in her community, Francine clearly loves the energy that is generated when creative individuals gather and share. “I am a people person,” she asserts. “The mission is always one of discovery.”

Elaine Petrocelli Corte Madera, Marin County California

Book Passage is one of the strongest independent booksellers in the nation. Founder and president, Elaine Petrocelli, and her husband, Bill, host hundreds of author events every year, and raise money for numerous programs and charities. The bookstore is a learning center of sorts with a huge roster of classes and worldrenowned literary conferences. Elaine, the daughter of a social worker and a lawyer, grew up in Indianapolis and used to sneak off to Chicago in her early teens in search of a literary world that was missing in her hometown. A self-confessed bookworm, she created her own personal heaven in 1976 when she opened her first bookstore. “It was only around 900 square feet of retail space and I had to borrow sales slips,” she remembers.

The bookstore has expanded since then, becoming a way to “bring the world to Marin County, and Marin County to the world.” Bill Clinton, Barbara Bush, and Barack Obama have been guests of Book Passage; Julia Child and Jacques Pepin have argued over how to make peas there; and writers from all over the planet vie for an opportunity to join the literary luminaries who daily enliven the premises.

Continued on page 30 See MY INSPIRATION

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Time

Ahead of her

“

I always believed in what I was doing.

I believed that it could make a difference in people’s lives, and journalism should make a difference in people’s lives. It should tell stories, and sometimes those stories show injustice. But we have to keep telling them.

We have to let people know the truth.

”

– Ruth Gruber

Photos courtesy of Reel Inheritance Films

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Myreel review

by Tammie Dooley

T

he documentary, Ahead of Time, compresses a lifetime of inordinate achievement into an hour and fifteen minutes. Ruth Gruber, at age 97, comes across exactly as she must have over 60 years ago. She speaks with a matter-of-fact ease about becoming the youngest Ph.D. in the world at age 20 (she entered New York University at age 15). She tells of her journey, at age 23, to the Soviet Arctic reporting for the New York Herald Tribune as the first foreign correspondent to document the region and the Soviet pioneers living there. And she relates her singularly heroic efforts to escort 982 Jewish refugees on an Army troop transport ship to Ft. Ontario, N.Y. A survivor of that passage reminisces about Ruth: “It’s like two people. One burns his hand and the other doesn’t. You feel for this person who burned his hand, but you don’t feel the burn. Ruth feels the burn.” She felt the burn of the refugees and implored President Harry S. Truman not to send them back to their respective homelands after World War II. “Journalism has changed over the years,” Gruber said in a Skype interview following the movie’s premiere at Tulsa’s Circle Cinema. “I think we were more polite back then, but we still had to get the story. We did it with compassion though. We always cared about telling the truth, and we told the truth. But we still cared about the person at the same time.”

When Gruber states she was “being squeezed at home like a sponge and would die if I didn’t escape,” I recalled my own “escape or die” sentiments growing up on the farm in small town Oklahoma. It’s an inherent trait of

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

youth to feel the need to break free. But not every young person suffers a gnawing at the gut to such a degree that the only cure is to cross borders - most certainly not a female, Jewish teenager in the 1920s. In high school, she realized that the entire world was not from Brooklyn and Jewish and so she proceeded to set her own course to discover it. However, it was more than grit, zip, and courage that took Gruber around the world. She set sail with a camera, pen, paper, and a litany of attributes that defied gender – an almost impossibly difficult course in the early 1930s. Poise, eloquence, quiet confidence, and compassion gave her the ability to move impressively among the world of high-powered men, super charged politicos, and high-octane adventure in the egocentric corridor from Washington, D.C. to New York City. Gruber was extremely affable; she soundly strikes the likeable chord. When combined with the rest of her diplomatic gifts, she was destined to be an unstoppable force in history in any decade.

In 1947, Ruth was the only journalist allowed on a ship filled with 4,515 Jewish Displaced Persons. The ship, Exodus 1947, sought to deliver the refugees – most of them holocaust survivors – from France to British occupied Palestine. The British attacked the ship, redirecting it to the port at Haifa with the intention of sending the refugees back to Europe. Ruth met the ship there and was the only journalist allowed by the British to accompany the displaced Jews back to Europe.

When the Paris Herald Tribune editor saw the developed photographs that Gruber took, he told her, “I never cry over pictures, but these made me weep.”

In the film, Ruth is reunited with the ship’s captain, Yitzhak “Ike” Aronowicz, who was 23 years old at the time. It is the first time they had seen each other in 60 years. The reunion reflects Gruber’s skill in diplomacy and compassion as they realize they have differing opinions on political issues concerning Israel. But Gruber, when faced with the choice of voicing her opinion on politics or showing respect to an old friend, falls silent and only smiles. Keeping your mouth shut may be a lost art these days, but Ruth still lives by the rule that the person matters more than the politics or the story.

Ruth changed lives and those of generations to follow because she allowed no social lens to define her and never felt the need to apologize or explain. There is but one obvious observation to be made about Ruth Gruber today. She’s 99 and still ahead of her time.

If the documentary piques your interest and you’d like to know more about Ruth Gruber, pick up any of her 19 books, or rent the CBS miniseries Haven starring Natasha Richardson. Mia

23

Myhealth

by Jessica Cunningham

Learning to

breathe

Photos by Erika Soos Crocker

24

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

Yes, I could breathe before then, but not very

well. I would often hold my breath when stressed and when I’d try to take a deep breath, it would get stuck in my chest. No amount of effort to move my breath into my belly – where a deeper sense of relaxation resides – worked. Then I began practicing yoga, and it was there that I found my breath, and soon after, my voice.

Yoga didn’t begin for me as a lesson in breathing. I was born with circus-like flexibility. My first memories of this unique talent began in kindergarten when much to the amazement of my school friends, I could do a center split and pancake my upper body flat on the floor without feeling a thing.

In junior high, I won flexibility contests at gymnastics camps of more than 200 students. Those kindergarten days began a venture into dance, gymnastics, and cheerleading that lasted until my first

Mia Mia Magazine, Magazine, Spring Spring 2011 2011

year of college in Massachusetts. At 19, I transferred to the University of Texas at Austin and quickly discovered that cheerleading in Texas was not like cheerleading in the Northeast. I attended a few of the tryout practices, but when I realized that more than 100 girls were trying out for four spots, I didn’t bother.

I dabbled in dance classes and then attended my very first yoga class as a sophomore.

I was still very flexible, and the teacher was impressed. He told me that he wanted to use me as a model for a yoga brochure, which was a nice ego trip.

I went to a few classes and enjoyed it, but it would be years before I began a serious yoga practice and realized that a big ego has no place in yoga. I also learned that yoga really has nothing to do with being super flexible; it’s all about the breath.

25 25

In 1996, a co-worker invited me to a yoga class, and I loved it. After a few classes I realized that yoga made me feel strong and healthy during class, and then calm and serene – yet energized – after it was over. During the one-hour class, any worries I was carrying would fall away as I breathed and stretched.

I was able to practice my new way of breathing on a trip back to Massachusetts. While running on a rural road, I fell hard. I severely twisted my ankle, blood poured from my knee, and chunks of gravel clung to my bloody palms. There was no one around. I began to panic but then remembered my yoga breathing. I took calm, deep breaths like my yoga teacher had taught me.

A sense of peace washed over me, and I painfully but calmly walked home.

A few years later, while struggling with infertility and anxiety, I began seeing a yoga-centered therapist.

Through yoga and centering breathing exercises, I began to explore some of the sources of my anxiety. In 2000, I became pregnant with our daughter. I practiced yoga almost daily at home throughout my pregnancy.

The journey that began with yoga and breathing was turning into a holistic life style that included meditation, planning for a natural, drug-free childbirth, and researching all that I could about homemade baby food, cloth diapers and breastfeeding.

A drug-free birth didn’t happen and I managed well with an epidural, but the yoga breathing and strength I gained from my daily practice helped immensely. Two years

26

later, I gave birth to my 9-pound, 4-ounce son without an epidural and only my yoga breathing to aid me.

That would not be my last time to use my breathing practices when it came to my children. Once, when my daughter was misbehaving and I was struggling not to use an inappropriate form of discipline, I used my yoga breathing to calm down before I took action. Amazingly, she stopped her bad behavior and said, “Mommy, why are you doing your yoga breathing?” My son, Will, has had his share of injuries, often involving the head and lots of blood. In the past I’ve often fainted at the sight of blood, but now realized this would not be very helpful to my son; so as I tended to him, I would engage in my yoga breathing. Sometimes I’d do alternate nostril breath which has a natural Valium effect. I plug one nostril, breathe into one side of my nose, then plug that side and breathe out the other side. I’ve never fainted and have been able to be present for my son’s needs.

In January 2002, I found my voice as a yoga teacher in Tulsa and in 2007, I became a 200-hour registered Yoga Alliance teacher. Today I live in Dallas after moving in June with my husband’s new job, and I know my daily yoga practice and a daily breathing meditation have helped me cope with a challenging move. And now, when I drive on the sky scraper-high freeways of Dallas with twenty lanes of traffic zipping around me, I remember to breathe. Mia Photos by Erika Soos Crocker

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

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MY ART Continued from page 17 I fell in love with the idea of learning to track animals.

I was delighted to find in my town a local chapter of a national group called Keeping Track – an organization dedicated to monitoring the presence of mammal populations such as porcupine, fisher, otter, and mink.

I threw myself into this new part of my journey, and before long I could identify a dozen types of animal tracks and their scat (droppings). This may not sound too impressive, but it is hard to do. At last, I was back in the woods.

I have always been a human version of a worker bee and have never started a project that I did not see through to completion. As I walked through the woods looking for scat and prints, I kept noticing unusually shaped trees and vines, and I began to envision the tables and chairs I could make with them. One day, a friend at an art class showed me an unusual maple chair she had made and something clicked. I knew I had found what I wanted to do!

I sought out a local furniture maker and worked with him for a few years to hone my carpentry skills; then I branched out on my own. I began to use bittersweet vines in my work. These are an invasive species of plant that choke native trees and other woody plants. The vines are deadly, but beautiful. I searched for other artists who also created with bittersweet and found a woman in Connecticut who used it exclusively.

I attended a workshop with her, and she changed my approach to furniture making. Even when the bittersweet vine is several inches thick, it allows the artist to bend and twist it into many interesting shapes.

My art is not without danger. My forays into the woods often include climbing high into trees with my trusty saw dangling from my belt so I can cut the best,

most interesting vines. Of course, these always seem to be near the treetops. On one of my first tree-climbing episodes, I made the mistake of cutting the vine that would help me descend from the tree. After an ungraceful and painful climb down, I vowed to be more careful. Now I always carry my cell phone whenever I climb.

After I transport my new finds home, I begin to put the vines together to form the piece of furniture. As with a jigsaw puzzle, I try many combinations until I am happy with the look. Then I begin attaching the vines together with special metal screws that I sink deep into the wood so they are almost invisible. To complete the piece, I often head back to the woods to search for more vines of a very specific shape.

When finished, my furniture carries an essence of nature into the home. The works are arresting, but they are also sculpturally pleasing and functional. My home is my showroom, which is the best way for visitors to grasp how easily the pieces can be incorporated into traditional settings, adding charm and a touch of whimsy to a room.

I have been designing and building bittersweet furniture for more than eight years. My family has supported me even as I have taken over our garage. In doing this work, I have found a way to combine my love of being in the forest with my dedication to ecology.

Every time I cut down a big bittersweet vine, I am saving a maple or an alder from its treacherous grasp.

When I am working in my basement studio creating a new piece of furniture, I experience a feeling of inner peace that often eludes me when I am simply checking off daily chores. My appreciation for the beauty of bittersweet is a grown-up version of the joy and sense of mystery I felt as a child playing in the woods. Mia

Photos submitted

28

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

“ Reading takes us away from home, but more importantly, it finds homes for us everywhere.

- Hazel Rochman

Mia Mia Magazine, Magazine, Spring Spring 2011 2011

�

29 29

MY INSPIRATION Continued from page 21

Rose Solari Washington, D.C.

At the Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland, another dynamic lady of letters, Rose Solari, sits on the Center’s board, which delivers literary programming to the Washington D.C. greater metropolitan area, where she grew up. Rose is a prize-winning poet, playwright, teacher, editor and now publisher who works with a diverse community of artists, musicians, writers and performers. Thrilled with her new role as co-founder of Alan Squire Publishing—along with her husband, musician and author James J. Patterson—she’s excited about bringing new artists and beautifully written work with a definite sense of time and place to light. It’s a community in which money and prestige frequently win the day and where the arts must fight hard for attention, but Rose is undaunted and excited about bringing new artists to the forefront. She takes literature and politics very seriously and surrounds herself with a creative following that does the same. “Writers remind us that language matters,” observes Rose. “Clear thinking results in clear language.” Rose has a sparkle that is lit from within by her fierce intelligence.

Rosemary James New Orleans, Louisiana

During November 2010, I was in New Orleans as a guest of the Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society and its co-founder, Rosemary James. Every year the society runs a literary contest called the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition. Many of today’s popular writers have been finalists and winners in the years since it began. The competition culminates in award ceremonies during a week of festivities known as the Words & Music Arts Festival. Guests last year included Tim O’Brien, author of The Things They Carried and Rebecca Wells, author of Little Altars Everywhere and Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. Festival events sprawl out over the entire French Quarter and involve patrons and participants from Louisiana and far beyond.

The epicenter for this activity and for the year-round literary programming is the Faulkner House at 624 Pirate’s Alley, the one-time home of Nobel Laureate William Faulkner. Rosemary holds sway over the proceedings with a queenly grace and Southern charm.

She has a charisma that demands attention, and I admit that I, like so many, have placed her on a pedestal. The writers – new and experienced – circulate around her like bees. Mia

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My blog Continued from page 11 Love this. Love it by itself. Love it on bread. Love it on ice cream. Love it on anything, anytime.

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Transfer the hazelnuts to a towel and rub off the skins if you can (I didn’t have a lot of luck with this).

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33

MY CAUSE Continued from page 19

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One of the breakout sessions I attended was especially enlightening. The man spoke about educating gas station attendants on the signs of human trafficking and posting the national human trafficking hotline number at every gas station in the nation. I was excited about the prospect of doing something substantial in the fight against slavery. My mom and I helped found our state coalition, Oklahomans Against Trafficking Humans (OATH), but I was much more passionate about getting into some hands-on activities versus the administrative aspects that forming a coalition required.

It was in one of our conversations that the light bulb came on. Instead of gas station attendants, how about working with truck drivers? Could we educate the trucking industry about human trafficking and ask truckers to get involved to help end the forced prostitution of minors? But we weren’t truckers – didn’t even know any truckers – and we had no “in” to the trucking world. Why would they listen to us? When we talked about getting the trucking industry on board in the fight against human trafficking, many people laughed at us and said the truckers were the problem, not the solution. We disagreed. With education, we believed truckers would begin to see the problem and do something about it. We created Truckers Against

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Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

Trafficking in March 2009.

Walking into my first trucking show in October of that year was a surreal experience. When the smell of oil and rubber from the big rigs assaulted my nose and the shiny chrome from the brightly polished truck made me narrow my eyes against the glare, I started to laugh.

I whispered to my sister, “If you had told me last year I would be hanging out at truck shows…” She laughed also.

Today, we’re passionate about truckers and the role they can play in ending human trafficking. Our initiative has grown tremendously, and truckers from all over the country are standing up and refusing to turn a blind eye to this evil. We’ve been on radio, television, in truckers’ publications, at trucking shows, and at venues across the nation speaking out about human trafficking and what truckers can do about it. The Department of Homeland Security has even asked permission to use the trailer from our training video in their fight against human trafficking.

I’m encouraged by the growing number of people seeking justice for the victims of human trafficking.

I’m filled with hope when truckers ask for our posters, brochures, video, and wallet cards with the national hotline number or when they tell me they’ve called the national hotline with a tip about forced prostitution.

My family and I stand proudly with the truckers against

trafficking who have said, “No more” to the evil around them. I feel honored to be part of the abolitionist movement, part of Chapter 61 Ministries and Truckers Against Trafficking, and part of my family. I don’t know if I need to get a tattoo. My cause is justice, which is more than skin deep. Mia

Shari and her cousin were kidnapped off the streets of Ohio one evening as they walked to Wendy’s for a frosty. They were brutalized, threatened, and broken down before their traffickers forced them into prostitution at truck stops. They were only 14 and 15 at the time. To hear how a trucker saved these girls’ lives, visit our website, www.truckersagainsttrafficking.com.

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Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

Myafterthoughts

by Monica Roberts

“ ” Marriage, as it turns out, is more challenging than it looks in the movies.

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

Kite and String

Recently my husband and I celebrated our 18th wedding anniversary. I know what you’re thinking: “How did her parents let her marry at age 12?”

It wasn’t easy for them, but trust me, I was a very mature twelve year old.

So back to being married nearly two decades. By today’s standards, we should be receiving gold medals to wear as a badge of courage. My parents, you should know, have been hitched for a whopping 60 years. Iron will (and stomach) apparently runs in the family.

My husband, as luck would have it, is the sensitive type. OK, yes, he does have all the positive attributes that the title brings with it. He’s a renaissance man, creative through and through, not afraid to let his feelings show and always concerned with the feelings of others.

Then there’s the annoying side of this title.

Take this morning, for instance. He asked me where his gloves were as he was leaving the house. I told him they were in the hall closet, in the pocket organizer where all the hats, scarves and gloves are housed. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, my voice had a “tone.” And he let me know about it. He said something about me being like a sweet, little bird – in a nest of thistles and thorns. To get to the sweet stuff, he has to get through the prickly stuff.

“Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes.

The sensitivity doesn’t stop there. We can’t go to a restaurant that has music playing too loudly. Strong smells really bother him. He has the nose of a bloodhound, and tomorrow I’m submitting his resume to the local K-9 police unit. Loud talking (as he says I do regularly, and I completely disagree) bugs him terribly. There is a wide array of multi-letter syndromes that could, and probably do, apply to him.

It’s a miracle such a sensitive flower has stayed married to a thorn bush like me.

For the record, lest you get the wrong idea about me, I cry in sad movies, love babies (of which I have three), and appreciate a sentimental gift.

Compared to most modern women my age, I’m considered a sap. Does my voice take on a tone when necessary? Did you read the part about having three kids?

I suppose the real miracle lies in how two personalities play off each other like yin and yang. I’m practical and grounded in reality. He’s a dreamer, a kite who flies high but lets me hold the string. And every once in a while, I have to reel him in.

Every day is an adventure with him. Though it’s sometimes a roller coaster ride, it’s never boring. And every day he appreciates the stability and calm I bring to our family – at least when it doesn’t come with a tone.

Marriage (and parenting), as it turns out, is more challenging than it looks in the movies. It’s hard work, day in and day out. It’s not for the faint of heart. It requires occasional checkups. Sometimes you have to eat crow for dinner.

Speaking of dinner, the next time you’re eating out – if it’s a place with very soothing Zen-like music – search us out. We’ll be the couple with gold medals around our necks. And I’ll be the one talking loudly. Mia

37

MeetourWRITERS CONTRIBUTING EDITOR Linda Watanabe McFerrin (My Inspiration, “Courting Culture: a Literary Quartet,“ p. 20) is a poet, travel writer, and novelist. She is the author of two poetry collections and is a past winner of the Katherine Anne Porter Prize for Fiction. Her latest novel, Dead Love, was published

by Stone Bridge Press in September 2010. She lives in Oakland, Calif.

CONTRIBUTORS Jessica Cunningham (My Health, “Learning to Breathe,” p. 24) is a freelance writer, yoga instructor, and contributor to the “Dirt Cheap Yoga” blog, www.dcyorg. blogspot.com. She lives in Dallas with her husband and two children.

Tammie Dooley (My Reel Review, “Ahead of Her Time,” p. 22) is a travel writer and photographer who is currently working on a book project with renowned cartographer Jeffrey Ambroziak. She can be found online at www. soloroadtrip.com. She lives in Tulsa, Okla. with her husband.

Indy Grotto (My Journey, “Postpartum Survivors,” p. 12) is a native of Australia and a songwriter who has released seven albums with her band, The Boondogs.

Her debut solo album will be out in late 2011. She lives in Little Rock, Ark. with her husband and two children.

Kylla Leeburg (My Cause, “Truckers Against Trafficking,” p. 19) is a high school history teacher, freelance writer and national coordinator of Truckers Against Trafficking.

Her book, My Life Crazy: A Gringa’s Life with the Salvadoran Gangs, was published in 2009. She lives in Tulsa, Okla. with her daughter.

Yona Zeldis McDonough (My Heritage, “Grandmother Tania: An Immigration Story,” p. 6) is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in Brides, Cosmopolitan, Family Circle, Redbook, and numerous other magazines.

Her latest book, Breaking the Bank, was published by Downtown Press. She lives in Brooklyn, N.Y. with her husband and two children.

Nancy Reilly (My Art, “The Beauty of Bittersweet,” p. 17) is a nurse, biologist, animal tracker and furniture maker. She lives in Concord, Mass. with her husband and son, and is the mother of three other grown children.

Monica Roberts (My Afterthoughts, “Kite and String,” p. 37) is a freelance writer, marketing consultant, and columnist for the magazine. She enjoys cooking, reading, entertaining, and an occasional long walk. She lives in Tulsa, Okla. with her husband and three children.

Amanda Valloza-Hlavaty (My Blog, “Maebird’s Food,” p. 10) loves to cook, write and take photos. She writes the blog “Maebird” at www.maebird.blogspot.com. She lives in Pasadena, Calif. with her husband and son.

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